


(mr. sandman) bring me a dream

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-11-02 00:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: It’s the end of October and Steve’s at a party.  He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party.  It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of Nancy is in his nose.  It makes him dizzy; makes him smile.





	1. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by and was originally meant to be a post for Wrecked Fuse's fantastic art, but it turned into something else, and I NEED to break into chapters for pacing. 
> 
> So, here's a prologue of something crazy and half-cooked, I guess.

It’s the end of October and Steve’s at a party. He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party. It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of Nancy is in his nose. It makes him dizzy; makes him smile.

_Motley Crue_ is playing. _Shout at the Devil_ is ringing in his ears. Billy Hargrove is walking up to him, through the crowd, with Tommy at his flank. 

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.” 

As Billy Hargrove pulls the cigarette from his lips, Steve pulls the sunglasses from his face. He holds his gaze long enough to know that Billy Hargrove isn’t worth his time. 

He scoffs when he walks away. Walks around the corner into the kitchen to find Nancy. Spills a drink all down her sweater when he tries to get her to slow down, to take it easy, and ends up getting his heart broken in the bathroom not long after that. 

He drinks himself stupid that night. Goes home and crashes hard. 

***

It’s the end of October and Steve’s at a party. He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party. It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of Nancy is in his nose. It makes him dizzy; makes him smile.

But _Motley Crue_ is playing. _Shout at the Devil_ is ringing in his ears. Billy Hargrove is walking up to him, through the crowd, with Tommy at his flank.

Steve frowns.

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.”

He’s been to this party before.

He looks to his right, to where Nancy should be, but she’s already gone. He pushes off the wall, pulling his glasses off. Turns his gaze on Billy Hargrove, standing there in jeans and a leather jacket, smelling like beer and cigarette smoke. 

He holds his gaze long enough to know that Billy Hargrove isn’t worth his time.

“What--?” 

“You’ve been _dethroned_, King Steve.” Tommy says, with a wide grin. 

Steve blinks. At him. At Billy. 

He scoffs as he walks away. Walks around the corner to the kitchen to try and find Nancy. She’s not there, but Steve remembers her calling him _bullshit_ in a bathroom, words slurred and sweater ruined. 

He takes one shot. Then another. Then another. 

He goes home. He crashes hard. 

***

It’s the end of October and Steve’s at a party. He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party. It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of Nancy is in his nose. It makes him dizzy; makes him frown. 

When he looks, she’s not even there. 

But _Motley Crue_ is playing. _Shout at the Devil_ is ringing in his ears. Billy Hargrove is walking up to him, through the crowd, with Tommy at his flank.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Shakes his head. 

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.”

He’s been to this party _before_.

When he yanks his sunglasses off and opens his eyes, Billy Hargrove is standing there in jeans and a leather jacket, smelling like beer and cigarette smoke. 

He holds his gaze long enough to know he’s done this before. Billy’s eyes are so blue. 

Steve’s throat works. 

“What’s happening?” Steve asks. 

“You’ve been _dethroned_, King Steve.” Tommy’s grin is wide and sharp. 

Steve feels sick. Feels drunk. He blinks at Tommy. At Billy. 

He pushes away and stumbles toward the kitchen. He’s supposed to find Nancy. Nancy’s supposed to be there. Nancy broke his heart and called him _bullshit_. Steve’s supposed to find her, but she’s not there. 

He feels drunk. He goes home. He crashes hard. 

***

It’s the end of October and Steve’s at a party. He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party. It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of smoke and booze is in his nose.

But _Motley Crue_ is playing. _Shout at the Devil_ is ringing in his ears. He’s heard this song _so many times_. Billy Hargrove is walking up to him, through the crowd, with Tommy at his flank.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Shakes his head. 

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.”

He’s been to this party _before_.

When he yanks his sunglasses off and opens his eyes, Billy Hargrove is standing there in jeans and a leather jacket, chest bare and glistening, smelling like beer and cigarette smoke and blood. 

He holds his gaze long enough to know he’s done this before. Billy’s eyes are so blue. 

Steve’s throat works.

“What’s _happening_?” Steve asks, stepping forward. “What the fuck is going _on_?” 

Billy Hargrove tilts his head. The heat in his face breaks as his brows draw together. 

Tommy cackles, clapping Billy on the shoulder. “You’ve been _dethroned_, King Steve.” 

“What_ever_,” Steve spits and shoves by. 

He’s supposed to head toward the kitchen. He’s supposed to look for... someone. For something. Something is supposed to happen and it’s _important_. 

He stumbles out the front door and goes _home_. He crashes _hard_. 

***

It’s the end of October and Steve’s at a party. He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party. It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of smoke and rot is in his nose.

But _Motley Crue_ is playing. _Shout at the Devil_ is ringing in his ears. He’s heard this song _so many times_. It’s so _loud_. Billy Hargrove is walking up to him, through the crowd, with Tommy at his flank.

Steve rips his sunglasses off and hunts around him. The room is still so dim. So dark. There’s ash in the air. 

“We’ve got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.”

He’s been to this party _before_.

Billy Hargrove is standing there in jeans and a leather jacket, chest bare and glistening. There are scars. Red and angry, like lightning across his skin. He smells like smoke and blood.

Steve holds his gaze long enough to know he’s done this before. Billy’s eyes are so blue. 

Steve’s throat goes tight. His breath catches and then stalls. 

“Billy, what the fuck is happening?” Steve asks. 

Billy Hargrove tilts his head. The heat in his face breaks as his brows draw together.

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?” 

Tommy claps a gnarled, pale hand onto Billy’s shoulder. It digs into the leather like claws. He smiles and his teeth are sharp and bloody. 

“You’ve been _dethroned_, King Steve.” 

His voice is so _deep_. 

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Billy, what’s--?” 

***

It’s the end of October-- but it’s not the end of October, Steve knows, it’s not even the end of the _summer_\-- and Steve’s at a party. He’s been to this party before, he knows, but in Small Town, Indiana every party is the same party. It’s all dimmed, behind his sunglasses, and the smell of smoke and rot is in his nose.

There’s no music. There’s nothing. It’s so quiet that Steve’s ears are ringing. It’s so quiet that it’s _loud_. Billy Hargrove is walking toward him, leaving Tommy behind, shoving to get to Steve. 

“_Billy_!” Steve calls out, pushing away from the wall, ripping off his sunglasses, blinking past the ash as Billy climbs over something to reach him. “Billy, where--?” 

Billy shoves into his space, pushes him back against the wall, eyes so blue and burning into Steve’s. He’s got scars all down his chest. Steve barely catches the sight of them as Billy presses in close, smelling like smoke and blood. 

“Am I dreaming,” Billy breathes, eyes hunting over Steve’s face. “Or is that you, Harrington?” 

“It’s me,” Steve says. 

Steve jerks, startling, as Billy’s mouth finds his own. As Billy slants their lips together, easy, and holds Steve’s gaze for as long as it lasts.

Behind Billy, in the dark, something _screams_. 

***

It isn’t the end of October and Steve’s _not_ at a party. It’s so dark. It’s _so dark_. 

“Harrington,” Billy calls, voice echoing around, ringing in Steve’s ears. “_Steve_. Steve, it’s a dream. You’re dreaming, okay?” 

Steve rips off his sunglasses and looks around. He can hear Billy but he can’t _see_ him. Steve’s throat goes tight. His breath catches and stalls. 

“Billy--” he gasps out and then coughs; the ash is so dense; it smells like rot. “Billy, where are you? Where are we?” 

“You’re not really here, Steve,” Billy tells him. “Just follow my voice, okay? Come to me.” 

Steve stumbles through the dark. He breathes out, slow, trying to keep his own heart from jumping right out of his chest. The floor and walls and everything seems to move. Like it’s breathing. Like it’s _alive_. 

“I’m not really here,” Steve mutters. “It’s just a dream.” 

Something screeches. Something coils around his ankle. Steve shouts, alarmed, and tries to kick it away. 

A hand finds his own in the dark. It’s rough and warm, a contrast to how brutally _cold_ everything is. Steve hadn’t noticed that before. 

Billy is there, pulling him away. “C’mon, Harrington. Follow me.” 

Steve holds tight to his hand. Follows, blind, through the soot and the dark and the cold. 

“Think of some place safe,” Billy hisses at him over his shoulder; he’s in his leather coat, but it’s worn and torn and he smells like blood. “Right now, Harrington. Think of some place _safe_.” 

They’re headed for a door. Steve thinks it used to be to the bathroom where Nancy broke his heart. Steve tries, desperately, to think of his living room, in the middle of winter, with the fire place burning. 

When Billy opens the door, they stumble inside and Billy slams it shut behind them. 

***

It’s supposed to be October. It’s supposed to be summer. There’s snow outside the glass doors and a fire crackling in the hearth. Steve crumbles to the ground, breathing hard, forehead resting against the carpet. 

When he looks, he’s not wearing his half-hearted costume from Halloween of last year anymore. He’s in his pajamas. The ones he fell asleep in, last night, on the couch after a long shift at the video store. 

He’s dreaming. He’s _dreaming_. 

“Jesus fucking _christ_,” Steve spits. “What the _fuck_ is going on?” 

Behind him, someone starts laughing. Billy starts laughing. Steve pushes himself up and looks over his shoulder at him, slumped in front of a door that doesn’t exist in Steve’s living room. 

“I wish I fucking knew, Harrington,” Billy says. “I really wish I did.” 


	2. make him the cutest that i've ever seen

Steve sits in front of the fireplace. The light is warm, gold, like early morning sunlight. When he reaches out to touch it, there’s no heat. 

When he was little, he used to play with the edge of the flames on his birthday candles. He’d see how quick he could dart his little fingers through the live fire without it hurting. He remembers burning himself, when he was eight, when he just wasn’t fast enough. 

Somewhere deep in the house, someone sobs. 

“ _ Focus _ ,” Billy breathes as he plops down next to him in front of the fireplace. 

The sobbing rings, lingering for a moment, before petering back out. Steve squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Better,” Billy says. 

Steve keeps his eyes shut. So hard that little spots of light appear behind his eyelids. Blue and red and green, like fireworks, bursting and floating down gently in the dark. 

Next to him, Billy sighs. 

“What’s happening?” Steve asks. 

“You’re dreaming,” Billy says, gruff, and Steve hears the sound of a lighter flicking open and flame catching; hears Billy inhale long and exhale slow. “I told you that.” 

“This is too real to be a dream,” Steve mutters. 

Billy laughs; it isn’t a nice sound. It’s bitter. Short. 

“Open your eyes, pretty boy.” Billy says. “Take a look around and tell me it’s real.” 

When Steve lets his eyes flutter open, there are specs of blue and red and green, like little fireworks, bursting apart and then floating down gentle. Steve’s breath catches. 

“I wanna wake up,” Steve says. 

Billy looks at him, sitting there in his living room, painted gold in the firelight as he taps ashes from the end of his cigarette. “Wake up, then.” 

***

There’s a pounding at his front door when Steve comes to. It’s morning; sun streaming in through the glass doors that lead out into his backyard. Steve’s entire body hurts and his head feels like its been stuffed so full of cotton that it might spill right out of his ears. 

The doorbell rings. Over and over and over. Steve groans and rolls off of the couch. 

“Alright!” he shouts, padding out of the living room and toward the front door, scrubbing a hand over his head. “I’m coming. Jesus.” 

When he jerks open the door, Dustin bursts right in. “Do you have work today? Tell me you don’t have work today.” 

“I don’t have work today,” Steve says, sighing, and shutting the door behind him. “What are you doing here at--” 

Steve pauses. He checks his watch. It’s nearly noon. He hadn’t realized he’d slept so  _ long _ . 

He thinks he remembers having a nightmare about the Upside Down. The tunnels, maybe. 

He doesn’t remember. 

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks. 

But Dustin is already grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him toward the stairs. “C’mon, you gotta get  _ dressed _ .” 

“Why?” 

“I need your  _ help _ ,” Dustin grouces, tugging him up the stairs, and Steve grins and purposefully drags his feet. “Duh!” 

“Help with what?” 

“I need to find a two month anniversary gift for Suzie.” 

Steve laughs as Dustin really starts to lean into it. “Oh, two month anniversary, huh? Getting serious, aren’t you?” 

“ _ Steve _ !” Dustin tugs again, harder, and Steve finally gives and starts padding up the stairs after him. “You’re such an  _ asshole _ .” 

“Yeah, well, you like me anyway,” Steve huffs, smooshing Dustin’s hat down on his head. “Let’s get your girl something nice.” 

***

It’s August and everyone is doing their back to school shopping. Even one town over, Steve keeps seeing girls from his high school walking around, arms loaded up with bags. 

It makes sense, he guesses, considering their mall got shut down and wrapped up in so much red tape it looked like a pinata by the time all those suits were done with it. 

He tries not to think about Starcourt too much. The fire and the Russians and the giant monster made of nightmares. It’s a little too much for him to bother with compartmentalizing, so he just ignores it. Mostly. 

It’s harder to do on the days where Max needs a ride to the hospital, to visit her brother, where he’s strapped up to a million machines and otherwise dead to the world. 

But today isn’t one of those days. Today, he spends his afternoon following Dustin around from store to store, telling him what girls like, and arguing that  _ no _ , actually, she probably doesn’t want a carnivorous plant, and how would Dustin ship that to her anyway? 

It’s nice. It’s a good day. He eats pizza in the food court and buys Dustin a shake as they window shop until Dustin finally decides on a bracelet with a constellation that Steve doesn’t know the name of dangling from it. To Steve, it just looks like a bunch of dots and lines, but Dustin assures him it’s  _ very _ romantic. 

“I’m her Perseus,” he boasts, like Steve’s supposed to know what that means, so Steve just nods. 

“Sure you are, buddy.” Steve says. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting late.” 

***

The sun has gone down by the time he drops Dustin off. Mrs. Henderson tries to get him inside, but when Steve declines, she sends him home with enough tupperware to feed an army. 

His parents aren’t home when he gets there. They won’t be, at least not until September, because his dad went straight from business in Boston to vacation in Belize, taking his mom with him. He’d had a short conversation with the both of them before they left the hotel in Boston for their flight, his mom telling him  _ Stefano, darling, I’ve got a new carpet coming in, make sure you pay Sylvia to set it up in your father’s den, _ while his dad had simply stated:  _ when I get back, we’ll talk about you quitting that deadend job and starting up at the main office _ . 

He unloads the tupperware into the half empty fridge and knows half of it is going to go bad before he ever eats it all. He’s only one person, after all, and he rarely eats more than once a day. 

He snags a beer from the door and heads out to the backyard. Leaves the sliding glass door open before plopping himself down onto a lounger and cracking the can open. It’s cold and crisp and bitter, and Steve tilts his head back as he savors it. 

August is always warm and a little wet. It, and the beer, are quick to go to his head. He stares up at the sky and tries to find the constellation dangling from little Suzie’s bracelet. 

***

Steve doesn’t remember dozing off, but he must. Because he blinks awake on the lounger, sticky with sweat from the Indiana heat, and squints against the light pouring over his face. 

It’s morning. Or it must be morning. The summer cicadas are singing. Buzzing. Screaming. It’s so bright. 

“Andromeda,” someone says. 

Steve startles, jerking, nearly falling right off the chair. When he blinks over at his pool, Billy Hargrove is there, floating in a wash of blue light. 

There are no scars on his chest, like the last time Steve saw him, and he remembers in a rush that he  _ did _ see him. That he’d seen him a dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand times-- over and over, last night, in his dreams. The moment Billy had dethroned him like a wonky, wicked, horrible loop. 

He’s in red swim trunks that say  _ Hawkins Lifeguard _ on the leg. Steve remembers seeing him sporting them around town, at the beginning of summer, like a damn badge of honor. 

“What?” Steve asks, blinking at him as Billy adjusts in the water, shifting and swimming until he’s at the edge of the pool; it’s not his pool, Steve realizes.

It’s the Hawkins’ Public Pool somehow displaced and then placed in his backyard. 

Steve’s head swims. 

“Andromeda,” Billy points upward. “That’s the constellation, all lit up. You find a pretty princess to rescue, Harrington?” 

Steve squints upward, at the sky, and sees that-- despite the bright light shining down-- it’s pitch black. The only thing in the sky is a mess of dots and lines. A perfect mirror of the one Dustin had bought that afternoon. 

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, slow, words like syrup as he looks back down at Billy. 

Billy grins. Behind Steve, sliding glass door opens. 

“I brought the beer,” Tommy crows, and when Steve twists around, he’s got Carol hanging off his arm.

Worse, Steve blinks, Nancy is trailing out after them with  _ Barb _ at her side. 

“I heard there was a party,” Billy says, and pushes himself up out of the pool, water sliding off his skin. 

Steve stares. He watches, silent, as Tommy tosses Billy a beer. As he cracks it open and chugs it down. As Nancy and Barb hover, excited and uncertain. 

The cicadas are screaming. And then there’s chatter. Talking. Music. 

The world tilts sideways. Carol is sitting in Tommy’s lap, laughing, and Barb is whispering something in Nancy’s ear as Nancy looks at him, from under her lashes, and Steve feels  _ sick _ . 

“You gonna share that, Harrington?” Billy asks, as he plops down next to him on the lounger, gesturing to the cigarette dangling from Steve’s fingers. 

He doesn’t remember lighting one. He glances down at himself, at the blue and yellow stripes on his polo. 

He threw this shirt out last year. 

“Wait,” Steve breathes, eyes closing. “Wait, wait, what’s--?” 

“Drink go to your head, Stevie?” Tommy asks, cheek dimpling as he grins, and then there’s a splash. 

When Steve looks, Tommy is tossing Carol into the pool as she screeches. When Steve looks, Tommy is sitting in the lounger across from him with Carol in his lap. When Steve looks, Barb is bleeding and rushing inside. 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut tight. 

“Easy, pretty boy.” Billy tells him, and there’s a hand on the back of his neck, warm and grounding. “Think of someplace safe.” 

***

Steve doesn’t remember dozing off, but he must. Because he blinks awake on the lounger, sticky with sweat from the Indiana heat, and squints up at the night sky. 

The summer cicadas are singing. 

Steve knows before he looks that Billy Hargrove is in his pool. He pushes up, and finds Billy at the edge, sitting in his red lifeguard shorts, tapping ash off the end of a cigarette as he glances over his shoulder at Steve. 

“Sleep well, pretty boy?” Billy asks. 

“I’m still dreaming,” Steve says, staring at the scars on Billy’s back. “How are you  _ here _ ?” 

Billy hums, dragging on his cigarette. Steve watches him exhale smoke into the night. His pool is his pool, blue light casting shadows across Billy’s face. 

“You called,” Billy says. “I came.” 

Steve can’t help it. He stares. Blinks. Stares some more. 

“ _ What _ ?” 


	3. give him two lips, like roses and clover

Billy's laughter is still ringing in his ears. It  _ follows him _ into the house, up to his room, where he sits on his bed and buries his head in his hands. Mocking and mean, a laugh that twists and turns into a cackle, a howling. Like that night at the Byers'. 

Until it isn't just Billy laughing. Until it's more than laughter. Until it's an agonizing cacophony and his room  _ shakes _ \--

"You have a lot of nightmares, don't you?"

Steve blinks up. He's not on his bed in his room. He's on the floor in his living room. There's a fire in the hearth. There's snow outside. 

Billy's sitting in front of him, legs crossed like Steve's, elbows on his knees, head cocked, blue eyes like transmuted flame roaming over Steve's face. 

Despite the fire, Steve shivers. 

"I don't sleep well," Steve admits. 

He thinks of the night terrors he had as a child. Recurring and so bad his mother bought him a dream catcher to hang from his bed post.

He thinks of how bad his dreams are  _ now.  _ With monsters and dark tunnels and dead bodies. 

Billy hums. His gaze strays to the sliding glass doors. To the frost that webs across the window pane, an intricate pattern knitting into shape-- a circle curling around it and then branching down into a single feather. 

When Steve looks, gaze tracing the familiar lines, it  _ glows.  _ Settles into place, like a beacon. 

There's no laughter anymore. 

"I didn't call for you," Steve says. 

Billy grunts, meeting his eyes again. "But you dreamt about me."

"I wasn't dreaming  _ about  _ you," Steve says because that feels important to clarify. "I had a dream with you  _ in it." _

Billy grins with all his teeth. "You have dreams with me in them a  _ lot _ , Harrington."

Steve scoffs, crossing his arms. "I'm pretty sure I'd  _ remember _ that."

"You saying I'm hard to forget?"

"I'm  _ saying,"  _ Steve spits. "That I'd remember you crashing my dreams because you're an  _ asshole."  _

Billy's grin doesn't falter. "Did you remember this morning?"

Steve blinks. 

"The Halloween party?" Billy presses. "The monsters?"

Something cold laces down Steve's spine. He shivers, breath stalling, and watches as Billy glances over his shoulder. 

When he looks, there's a door. It doesn't belong there, but it's there.

Steve doesn't want to know what it leads to. 

"I don't remember every little thing about my dreams," Steve says, and twists back around to focus on Billy in the fire light. "Do you?"

"I  _ am _ your dream, Harrington." Billy says. "Of course I remember."

Steve snorts. His mom, if she were there, would chide him on his manners. 

Briefly, eerily, he hears the ghost of opera music waft down the stairs. 

"So none of this is real," Steve says. 

Billy hums. He reaches out, fingertips pushing Steve's fringe from his brow, and Steve can feel the  _ heat  _ of him. 

Feels it as he traces his brow. Then his cheek. Then his lower lip. 

Steve shudders. He can feel the callouses on Billy’s fingertips. 

"It's as real as you want it to be," Billy says, and then frowns. "Better wake up, dingus. Or something might eat you alive."

Billy says it, but it's not Billy talking. It's his voice, but it's distorted. High and low and impossible. 

" _ Dingus _ ," Billy sings, and then smacks his cheek twice. "Wake up."

***

Steve startles into motion. Legs jerking out, arms flailing, and he catches Robin's hands before it can land on his cheek again. 

"Whoa, there, Harrington." Robin frowns down at him. "You good?"

It's night time. The only light on in his backyard is from the pool. 

Steve drank half a beer and passed right out. 

He groans and slumps back in the lounger, letting Robin's hand go. He's  _ really _ gotta work on upping his tolerance; half a beer and a bit of heat shouldn't make him sleep so  _ hard _ . 

"Sorry," Steve huffs. "Weird dream."

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

Steve blinks and frowns. He tries to think of a detail, any detail, from his outdoor nap and comes up empty handed. Thinking about it just makes it run from him faster. 

Like trying to catch smoke. 

"Honestly? No fucking clue."

Robin clicks her tongue. "Hate those."

"Yeah," Steve wets his lips and peers up at her. "What are you doing here?"

Robin grins, holding up a plastic baggy and a VHS tape. Steve recognizes the label:  _ A Nightmare on Elm Street.  _

"I brought the weed and the movie," she says. "You provide the snacks."

"Oh, fuck, it's Wednesday."

" _ Yeah,"  _ Robin says. "So get a move on, would you? Freddy's gotta kill some teenagers and I've already got the munchies."

Steve laughs as he ambles to his feet, picking up the empty beer can. He follows Robin inside, rolling his eyes as she chides him for being dumb enough to fall asleep outside  _ and  _ with the door open, and when he stops to close the sliding glass door behind him, he thinks, for a moment, he sees a stubbed out cigarette by the poolside. 

He's half tempted to call Robin out on it when she elbows him. 

" _ Popcorn _ , dingus.  _ Let's go." _

Steve sighs. He'll just clean it up later. 

***

Steve doesn't go to sleep again that night. Not because he's not tired, but because the weed leaves him paranoid until the sun starts to come up, and Steve decides  _ fuck it.  _

So, at work that afternoon, when Lucas comes in with Max, the kid blinks at him like a damn owl and whistles. 

"You look like  _ shit,"  _ Lucas says. 

Steve sighs. "I know your  _ mom _ , Sinclair. And I know for a  _ fact  _ that your sister would  _ kill  _ to get you grounded."

Lucas' mouth snaps shut. 

Steve feels smug for  _ maybe  _ half a second. But then Keith walks out of the back and yells: "I'm not paying you to lounge around, Harrington!"

Steve groans and pushes away from the checkout counter. Pointedly taking the video cart with an exaggerated jerk, and dragging it toward the New Release aisle. 

Lucas and Max follow him. 

"You guys looking for something specific?" Steve asks. 

Max shares a look with Lucas, her lips quirked. Steve’s kind of happy to see it-- she hasn’t smiled much, not really, in the last month or so. Not since the mall. Not since El left with the Byers. 

But Steve knows that look. He shoves a few tapes onto the shelves, already shaking his head. 

“No,” he says. 

Lucas makes a face. “You don’t even know what we were gonna  _ ask.”  _

“I can guess,” Steve huffs. “I’m generally pretty good at that. Managed to scrape by in most of my classes guessing, actually.” 

Lucas scoffs and crosses his arms. “If it was Dustin, you’d already be saying yes.” 

“But you’re not Dustin,” Steve says. 

Max clears her throat and looks up at him with big, begging eyes. “But Dustin would be there. And he’d be really impressed and grateful. I mean, he kinda already thinks you hung the moon, but…” 

Steve glances at her, blindly stocking the VHS tapes. “You really think that’s gonna work on me?” 

_ “Please,  _ Steve?” Max shuffles closer. “Mike’s been, like,  _ really _ down and it would be a lot of fun and it would be a good distraction from all the stuff from July and--” 

“Alright, alright,” Steve huffs. “What exactly did you have in mind?” 

Max and Lucas beam. 

***

It’s not the first time Steve’s ended up with a house full of puberty ridden teenagers. It’s not even the first time he’s allowed  _ the party  _ to manipulate him into getting their way-- the back route to the movie theatre at Starcourt comes to mind, along with an endless amount of free samples and free rides and pizza at the arcade and R-rated flicks they definitely shouldn’t be watching. 

But he’s never let them crash at his place before. Never played host to four tiny losers who are more interested in playing a  _ board game  _ over jumping head first into his pool. 

Honestly, it’s probably the most relaxing party he’s ever thrown. 

Which is why, well into the party’s campaign, Steve dozes off on the couch in the middle of it all, Dustin’s excited shouts as Max rolls her dice like a lullaby. 

***

He wakes to an empty living room. 

It’s dark and it’s cold. Too cold for the end of August. He shivers as he pushes himself up from his recline in the corner of the couch, blinking at the coffee table scattered with papers and dice and hand-painted figurines. 

He doesn’t know where the kids are. He frowns. 

Behind him, someone pounds on the door. The door that doesn’t belong. The door that leads to nowhere. To nothing. To darkness. 

On the sliding glass door, there’s a dream catcher drawn in the frost, glowing faintly. Steve rubs at his arms and pushes to his feet, so cold that he can see his breath in front of his face. 

“Dustin?” he calls. 

It echoes. He thinks he hears laughter. Someone is still pounding on the door. 

Steve turns to it. 

“Don’t think your curly haired dweeb is in there.” 

Steve turns his head and Billy Hargrove is standing next to him-- leather jacket and jeans and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Steve doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Steve expected him. 

Steve’s head swims. 

“My mom doesn’t like it when I smoke in the house,” he says. 

Billy raises a slow brow, pulls from the cigarette, and plucks it from his mouth as he holds Steve’s eyes. Blows out smoke into Steve’s face. 

“Good thing it’s not you smoking, then.” 

Steve frowns. “Where are the kids?” 

“Dunno,” Billy shrugs. “It’s your dream, pretty boy. I’m just along for the ride.” 


End file.
